


Undone

by PicaLudica



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PicaLudica/pseuds/PicaLudica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo finally earns Thorin's respect, their relationship begins to change. The comfort and the joy they gradually find in each other's company permanently alters them, undoing what they were and weaving them together into a single red thread.  </p><p>Angsty, slow building Bilbo/Thorin. Picks up in movie-verse, just after the end of "An Unexpected Journey". Contains no spoilers for the book yet, but will in future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Disclaimer: the characters and the work of fiction on which this is based are the property of their respective owners. The present work is just a writing exercise, and let's be honest, quite a bit of self-indulging.]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has finally earned the respect of Thorin Oakenshield. To his dismay, he realizes that his own feelings have now changed drastically.

The camp was a rather miserable one that night. The company had lost most of their supplies, and they barely had the means to make a fire. What precious little food they had in their pockets and pouches had been carefully rationed to last them for at least one day, in case they couldn't find any game or fruit right away. Without a good blaze to warm them, nor hearty meal to cheer them, nor even the necessary supplies to properly tend their wounds, they had spent a very glum evening at the base of the peak where the eagles had left them. They huddled together for warmth, making makeshift bedrolls out of their cloaks.

Being the smallest of them all and having the lightest clothing, Bilbo found himself at the center of the group, shielded from all sides against the chill of the night. But even in this relative warmth and safety, the hobbit could find no peace. Restless, he lay on the hard, uneven rocks, staring into the darkness with wide open, almost manic eyes. The events of the previous day were finally catching up with him. Near-death experiences danced in his mind, one after the other. His own mad resolve to pursue this adventure, his tookish streak leading him to do the most reckless things…

All because of  _him_.

Just to prove to him that he wasn't worthless, that he could be all that his dwarves were, and more. All of this just to see respect and acceptance in those steely eyes that always looked at him with nothing but disdain.

Well, he certainly got what he wanted, didn't he? He got more than what he had wished for, in fact. Only that wasn't enough anymore. His heart contracted at the memory – still so fresh, so very vivid in his mind – of the icy gaze melting before him like snow in the spring sun; of the ever frowning, ever preoccupied face coming alive with a smile so warm and gentle it seemed to shed all its years of trouble; of the prince's gratitude as he had looked at him, a simple hobbit, his admiration, and, yes,  _fondness_  washing over him, engulfing him, choking him as surely as that bear hug had. For a blinding instant, Bilbo had felt entirely lost, and frightened out of his wits. The scares he had experienced beforehand had been nothing compared to the panic that had seized him as he was pulled into that embrace.

Because that simple gesture, that brief moment of closeness had brought him a joy more fierce and wild than anything he had ever felt in his life. And because there was nothing that he now wanted more than to feel that joy again.

Bilbo was terrified. Never had something so untamable, so unreasonable possessed him like this. His heart quivered like a frantic bird in a cage at the mere thought of that smile, of those arms around him, holding him fast, holding him close. Was  _this_  what falling in love was supposed to feel like? He'd had his share of infatuations in his youth, but nothing could compare with the sheer power of his current wretchedness of mind and soul. How could people stand it? Why would people  _seek_  it, of all things? Bilbo's fear escalated into horror when he thought about what would happen if any of this surfaced. If someone noticed…

If  _he_  noticed, Gods forbid!

Armies of goblins, orcs and wargs had not weakened his resolve, but now he truly wanted to leave, to flee. Of course they will notice. He will notice. He will  _know_.

The hobbit flinched inwardly as he imagined that regal face full of disdain again. Full of disgust. If his disapproval had been painful before, Bilbo knew it would now be unbearable. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the sting of oncoming tears.

Why?  _Why?_

When everything finally seemed to take a turn for the better, just when he had finally managed to earn his trust, to properly earn a place in his company –

Both his mind and body froze as a strong, leather-clad arm wove itself around his waist and gently pulled him close. In his daze, Bilbo had forgotten next to whom he was lying, and it was almost as if his thoughts had summoned their object out of nowhere. He reeled from the touch, from the feeling of the rough hand on his stomach, of the broad chest against his back. He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths in an attempt to steady his heartbeat, which was now careening out of control.

"You are troubled, little one," came a low whisper, frighteningly close to the hobbit's ear. It was a statement, not a question, but it carried an invitation, as well as a hint of concern.

 _Gods,_  Bilbo pleaded silently, his mind howling in desperate prayer,  _If I should betray myself…_

"The day has been a bit… full, I guess," he whispered back, trying to sound lighthearted. "Don't mind me, I'll be right as rain in the morning."

But it seemed that he would not be able to get away that easily. If anything, the dwarven prince now sounded more concerned.

"Yours is not a warlike people," he said in a soft whisper. "You have known nothing but peace for generations. Gandalf tried to explain, but I refused to understand. I do now. For my sake, you have put yourself into harm's way. You have killed. I understand now what it must have cost you, how it must affect you, no matter how stout your heart is. If there is anything I can do in return, to ease your mind…"

Bilbo wanted to scream. Ease his mind?  _Ease his mind?_  While he was holding him like this, so close, so maddeningly close, whispering so intimately into his ear…! A small, still reasonable part of him understood that it was meant as a gesture of comfort, of sympathy. What did he know of dwarvish custom? They were probably prone to touch and to hold in any kind of circumstances, and it didn't carry the same intimate meaning for them. The currently entirely unreasonable rest of him seized that train of thought like one catches a conveniently growing branch when falling into a precipice.

Why not?

Why not enjoy the moment while it lasted, if it wouldn't be taken amiss?

Before he could stop himself, he leaned further against the dwarf's chest, his hand shyly seeking the one resting on his abdomen. It was a great shock to Bilbo when the thick, rough-skinned fingers slowly entwined with his own. A pleasant shock, to which the hobbit abandoned himself completely, drinking in the warmth that the embrace brought both to his body and his soul. For a moment, a blissful moment that kept darkness and fear at bay, he wanted nothing more than to stay like this, held protectively, almost possessively by the one he would follow to the ends of the earth and back.

"We shall give you what counsel we can," the dwarven prince whispered after a while, as the tension in the hobbit's muscles began to ease. "Learning the warrior's way may be of use to you, even though you have proved yourself to be made of stronger mettle than we gave you credit for. For now… try to sleep, Bilbo."

The hobbit shivered slightly at the sound of his name. The other dwarves of the company called him by his first name most of the time. But not their leader. Not once. Always he would refer to him as "halfling", "hobbit", "burglar", or "Master Baggins" at best. Bilbo had never given it a second thought, but what a difference it made now! It was another form of intimacy, and one more easily achievable. He took comfort from the fact that he may at least enjoy hearing his name spoken by the dwarf every now and then, since he didn't expect to ever be held like this again.

He did not wish to sleep in the slightest, holding on to every shred of this moment of closeness. But the fatigue he had repressed so far and the turmoil of his mind were finally taking their toll. Lulled by the warmth he was cradled in, he felt himself drift off.

"I will not need to try very hard, it seems," he muttered sleepily. "Thank you… Thorin."

The whispered name echoed in his heart, and he savoured its sound as he fell into a deep slumber. In his dreams, he felt a calloused hand squeeze his own, as if in reply. A smile played on his lips as he slept. A sad smile, full of new longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Additional chapters are in the works, but am still trying to wrestle my ideas into shape. This was written essentially to externalize my own newfound feelings about this particular ship. It took me entirely by surprise, and it has now taken its quarters in my head. This has not been proofread by either a beta reader or a Tolkien scholar, so if you spot any mistakes, do point them out to me so I can correct them. Also, I'm still trying to find my writing voice, so any feedback on storytelling and style would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his confrontation with Azog on the cliff, Thorin cannot find rest. Sleepless, haunted by his defeat, he finds comfort from an unexpected source.
> 
> Bilbo/Thorin fluff, this time from Thorin's point of view.

The night after their narrow escape from the goblins and the orcs, Thorin Oakenshield could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was forcibly brought back to that blazing cliff.

 

Beaten.

Helpless.

The satisfied snarl on Azog’s face as he looked down on him.

The edge of the orcish blade against his neck, rising slowly for the final blow.

 

A high-pitched shout.

A small shape throwing itself at the orc who was looming above him, bringing him down, slashing wildly.

 

Ever since the hobbit had joined his company, he had been an increasingly irritating thorn in Thorin’s side - weak, useless, a waste of his energy and time. He had been sure that this so called “burglar” would desert them at the first opportunity. And by Durin’s beard, he had done what he could to drive him away.

But Bilbo Baggins had taken it all in stride. The discomfort, the ever growing danger, and not least of all, Thorin’s ill treatment of him. Even when they had given up on the hobbit, the meek creature had stood tall above them, without a trace of pride or resentment, offering his help and his sympathy for their plea in his simple, honest manner. Right then and there, the dwarven prince had felt truly humbled by the halfling, though he would never have allowed himself to show it. Along with a growing feeling of admiration and regard came a creeping sense of shame at his misjudgment. In the privacy of his own mind, Thorin had to admit then that despite his previous statement to Gandalf, he did feel responsible for their burglar’s safety, for his fate. He could see how well the little one had wormed his way into everyone’s hearts. Including his own.

And when the halfling had charged that orc, swiftly surrounded by Azog and his henchmen, Thorin could not repress an overpowering feeling of fear and guilt. How wrong he had been! How hasty, how mistaken in his judgment! The one he had dismissed as a whining weakling had shown more courage and loyalty than many of the dwarf’s own kin. The wizard had been right: there was more to him than met the eye. So much more!

 

And he was going to get himself killed.       

 

What Thorin had expected to be his last thoughts had not been for his home, nor for his people and his family. Sinking into oblivion, he could only think of the foolish, _foolish_ hobbit, who owed him no allegiance, and yet had freely given his life to protect him.

 

The dwarven prince had not expected to open his eyes in this life again. His mind, still addled by his injuries, had then been filled with a single thought: the halfling. Was he to live with the little one’s death on his conscience? His own helplessness, his mistake that had cost him a comrade so much after his own heart had driven him into a bitter rage. And when he had finally laid eyes on the hobbit, standing before him alive and well, smiling at him in relief – relief! Even though Thorin had treated him like dirt! – it had been too much for the dwarf to bear. His anger at himself overflowing, he had lashed out at the little one with the full strength of his self-resentment. But at the sight of that small face taken over by bewilderment and pain, his temper had immediately been doused, allowing his mind to finally process what had been staring at him in the face: the hobbit was alive. _He was still alive._ There was still time to make amends, to value him as much as he deserved. Relief and joy had washed over Thorin in an overwhelming wave, and he had pulled the halfling close, holding him against his heart, basking in the simple reality of this spared life.

 

As he lay now on the cold rocks at the base of the peak, sleepless, his eyes fell on the back of the small figure curled up next to him. The little one seemed to have trouble finding rest, endlessly shifting, shivering from something that seemed to be more than mere cold. Who knew what the hobbit had gone through while he had been separated from the company? And how was he coping with his first kill? For a battle seasoned dwarf, this wasn’t anything to dwell on. But for a youngling who had never seen battle, who had never known war, who didn’t even know how to wield a blade… It didn’t matter that it had been a worthless orc. The halfling had willingly taken a life without being prepared for it.

Whatever ailed him now, he was suffering through it alone. _Never again_ , Thorin grimly vowed to himself. Never again would he let their burglar feel isolated in their midst. He cared about each and every dwarf of his company, and no longer would he treat the hobbit differently. Unsure about what he could do to soothe Bilbo’s spirit, he acted on instinct, and reached out for the trembling halfling, pulling him close for warmth and comfort. He knew immediately that he had been right in his concern: the little one was extremely tense, and betrayed signs of great distress. And so Thorin held him, whispering what simple words of reassurance he could find. He fervently hoped he would be able to make the hobbit understand that he belonged with them, and that they were there for him. That he, Thorin Oakenshield, was there for him.

Slowly, the halfling’s tension and restlessness abated, and gave way to a peaceful slumber. Thorin was surprised, however, to find that his own mind now seemed at rest. He felt pleasantly drowsy from the shared warmth, and an odd sense of contentment was gently blooming in his chest. No more visions intruded on him as he closed his eyes, his heart was no longer shackled in doubt. The dwarf wondered at this as sleep finally beckoned. The feeling of the small, soft hand on his was unexpectedly comforting, and Thorin realized then that he had unconsciously entwined his own fingers with the hobbit’s. He gently squeezed the little one’s hand, and nestled even closer against him, suddenly feeling strangely vulnerable. He was the leader of the company, the leader of his people. He was the wall that guarded them from harm and from want. But in the wake of his defeat, having been left diminished, wounded in pride as well as in flesh, he grudgingly allowed himself this moment of respite. He let another be his shield. He let the halfling bring him comfort and guard him from his nightmares. In the secret of the night, under the cover of darkness, he set his burden aside and let himself feel his own weariness, pride and honour finally giving way to the need for solace. With a silent sigh, he rested his forehead against Bilbo’s unruly curls.

 _I’m the one who should be thanking you, little one,_ he thought, not daring to even whisper for fear of being heard. _I now owe you an even greater debt._

Sleep claimed him, and he gladly fell into a dreamless oblivion, his rest truly undisturbed for the first time since he had fled the halls of Erebor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The rest of the story is taking shape, and I'm anticipating several more chapters. Thank you to all for your encouraging response, it's very motivating!  
> This has not been proofread by either a beta reader or a Tolkien scholar, so if you spot any mistakes, do point them out to me so I can correct them. Also, I'm still trying to find my writing voice, so any feedback on storytelling and style would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!]


End file.
